Page 52 of Across an Endless Sea

And his agony.

Unlike before, when the draw began slowly and grew quickly worse, this is instant. One second, I’m fine, with only the normal headache and weakness I’m coming to associate with being in Fellgotha. The next, the skin of my back is so sensitive that even the light pressure of my clothes on it is too much. My body shakes as a tremor runs through me. It feels like someone has shredded my skin, though I know there’s no such wound there.

I collapse beside Caed with a whimper, unable to summon the strength to do more than hold on to his hand as his back knits itself back together. My eyes blur and I slump to one side, biting my tongue so hard that my mouth fills with the coppery taste of my own blood.

My body convulses, vision dimming to a pinprick. This time, I throw myself headlong into unconsciousness, begging for the oblivion it brings.

Seventeen

Drystan

Ihaven’t had a headache in days, and I’ve never loathed being pain free quite so much. Of course, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. The damned Call has been vibrating with Rose’s terror since she left. She alternates between fear and pain, and I glower at the grey sea that separates us.

The black beaches of the northern Winter Court are not a place I come to often. It’s a desolate land where the waves crash into the foggy shore in a never-ending drumbeat. The cold, wet, miserable landscape is where I hoped to find Annis, but the kikimora isn’t shambling around, searching for treasures amongst the foamy kelp today.

She knows I’m here—no doubt about it—but evidently, she has no interest in speaking to me.

A sigh escapes my lips, and I turn my gaze to the horizon once more.

I’d hoped to convince my reclusive hawkmistress to return to Elfhame with me and tutor Rose when she returns, but I’ve visited all of her favourite haunts, and the message couldn’t be clearer.

Annis hasn’t changed her mind. She won’t teach Rose about necromancy.

At least the Goddess-damned Call is easier to bear here. Perhaps that’s because I’m closer to her—even with an ocean between us.

Another twinge of her pain echoes beneath my skin, and I growl in frustration, ripping my glove off to stare listlessly at Rose’s mark.

Every single day I dread a new line appearing beside the first two, marking another death, even as I pray for it.

Because whatever Jaro might think, there is no way she’s getting back across that water alive. The shifter is overwhelmed and doing his best to fill in for Florian, but I can see him growing more and more hopeless by the day. Lore has gone off the rails, and is trying to kill his way through the Fomorian army, and Bree…

The púca is like an empty machine. Without Rose, all he does is work on the tasks Kitarni assigns him. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t even sleep. He’s spreading chaos through the inner city, razing brothels which have been hiding indentured whores one by one.

Without the Nicnevin, her Guard is splintering. Kitarni is trying her best to keep them all occupied and healthy, but she doesn’t even know where to start with me. Hence why I’m out here, roaming. Alone.

Rose has to return, and when she does, we’ll be ready. This time we have the advantage, because Caed will still have to cross the Endless Sea. By the time he reaches Elfhame, we’ll have her so well protected that the half-fae asshole can’t even breathe in her direction.

I won’t fail her again.

“So the whispers are true,” an unwelcome, yet familiar voice calls, shocking me out of my musing. “Drystan Snowchild has been called to the Nicnevin’s Guard.”

Clenching my hand in a fist, I brace myself as I turn to face Ashton, who’s striding towards me, long black hair escaping its usual top knot to fly free around his face.

“Prince Ashton.” I offer him the subtlest of bows, and his dark eyes narrow at the insult.

He started it.

Everyone in the Winter Court knows my true name and the story behind it. The only good thing is thatInever gave it to any of them, and thus it holds no power over me. Still, to be named Snowchild—an orphan’s name—when my mother’s house is known and just as noble as the Froshtyns’ is a kick in the teeth.

“Does the Nicnevin know who she’s allowed into her bed?” Ashton teases, his round face open and amused. “Or have you omitted that little detail? You certainly never sent word home of your upcoming nuptials.”

I never quite know where I stand with him. On some days, he’s Cedwyn’s dog, ready to chase me down and deliver fresh torment, but on others, when he is more himself, he can be almost friendly. It depends on whether he’s in command of his own actions.

You almost never know which side of him you’ll get until the moment comes.

“I had no obligation to send word of anything to Calimnel,” I reply, keeping my tone even as I eye the sword at his hip warily.

It’s one of a set of three, made of quicksilver, and deadly to all immortals. The Froshtyn brothers share the same talent, a family legacy of ice magic that allowed their forebears to create Calimnel. It’s that magic that allows them to turn the liquid metal of those formidable blades solid, rendering them useless to everyone else.

---